The Darkening Days
by Losseniaiel
Summary: The Third Age draws to a close and life in Rivendell becomes more complex than ever. AU.


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The Darkening Days

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Prologue

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Disclaimers: The world and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. I am making no money from this and intend no infringement of copyright.

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Rating: PG-13.

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Summary: The Third Age draws to a close and life in Rivendell becomes more complex than ever. AU.

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Notes: This story begins some time around the end of the Watchful Peace in 2460, when Sauron returns to Dol Guldur. The first meeting of the White Council is just about to be called, and the West of Middle-earth is in a state of upheaval. The disposition of the Three becomes more important than ever.

Elrond never married, never had children, but has ruled alone as the Master of Imladris, friend of Elves and Men and Istari alike. Kind and fair, he has an increasing reputation for recklessness in battle, and almost martial calm in peace.

Thanks to **Isis** for betaing this.

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Feedback is very welcome.

A tree loomed out of the incipient dusk of the winter's afternoon, and the Elf jerked awake, his grip on the reins tightening convulsively. He sighed when he saw the obstruction, the bare branches leaning half out into the winding road that threaded through the mountains. Beneath him, his horse snorted discontented, no happier than his rider to be awakened from his waking doze. Desultory raindrops plashed into the potholes around them, and the Elf cursed, glancing up at the roiling black clouds boiling above the mountains. The air crackled with unseasonal lightning, a scant sense of potency on the edge of his nerves. The dry, dead leaves rattled above him, and the horse shuffled nervously, clearly no happier at this turn of the weather than he was.

It had been a long ride from the Havens far to the West, through country largely deserted or inhospitable, although he remembered the days when thick corn had grown in waves in these lands, and the Men of Arthedain, of Cardolan and of Rhudaur had multiplied in the plentitude. But no more. Naught remained now but a solitary scattering, an outcast people wandering in the wilderness, out beyond the green lands.

The Elf's nose wrinkled at the memory of the welcome which had greeted him when even he could go no further, for his horse had cast a shoe. Not even one of the mighty among the Eldar, be he Fëanor himself, could shoe a horse without forge or irons. But, for this Elf, pitchforks and burning brands had been a novel experience, and one that he did not care to repeat.

He shuddered, spattering droplets of drab greenish water from a tail of sodden blond hair.

"Not far, now," he reassured himself, tightening the soaked reins around one fist.

It was true enough. Already, the sky seemed nearer, the leaden greys and purples of the mountains no longer smooth, but rough and uncertain. The road, no more than a track now, curled sinuously between dripping pines. He almost imagined he could see the roofs of the Last Homely House rising against the sullen horizon, the strong walls and graceful spires which called to mind his home of long ago.

He buried his chin deeper in his cloak. The fires would be burning now, and, if his luck did not turn again, there would be a mug of spiced wine to sip while he gave his report to his liege lord and friend.

A furrow creased Glorfindel's immaculate forehead as he contemplated the Master of the Last Homely House. A cold man, his liege, and colder with each year. Kind? Aye, a kind lord and a generous friend, but high, and cold, and terrible. Duty bound him to this Middle-earth, but the blue fire seemed to burn bright beneath the starlit grey of his eyes as the Age passed into dust and darkness, and it was a rare night which saw him smile.

To none was his heart given, and even Glorfindel had ceased to bait him on the subject. It was strange indeed, he pondered with a shrug, that one for whom so many lures had been laid, had remained for so long unwed, and indifferent. Only once had he shown a passing flicker of interest, but that was an Age past, now, and the maiden long since gone, away into the wastes of Rhovanion, if rumour held true.

He shivered as the waters of the Bruinen boiled about his knees, hitching his cloak higher. There was nothing to be gained by meddling in the affairs of the peredhil, for they were a stubborn kind, and little given to heeding even the best advice. However, he saw with a grin as he rounded a sharp kink in the path, and the House stood before him, they did show remarkable hospitality to all comers. There was a distinct aroma of hot spiced wine and roasting meat in the air, and lamps seemed to blaze in every window.

There was a brief stir inside, and the Lord of Imladris emerged. He was thinner, Glorfindel noticed, much thinner than he had been a year past, and there was a pinched look about his eyes which suggested too many nights bereft of sleep, even for one of the Eldar. His simple black clothing was dusty; there were ink stains on his fingertips, and a bundle of papers clutched in his hand.

"Welcome back, mellon-iaur." He clasped his friend's arm in greeting. "What news from Círdan?"

Glorfindel evaded the point neatly. The tidings were grim, but not so grim that they must be told while sodden to the skin. "Have you paused from work a single moment since last I saw you?" He flapped one dripping hand in the general direction of the sheaf of papers.

Elrond snatched them hastily out of harm's way. "There is much to be done," he said curtly.

"Aye." Glorfindel inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"And with you to gallivant across half of Endor, no doubt irritating Círdan into an incandescent fury, I have all the time in the world to read," the lord said, and smiled lightly, that rare, sweet smile which altered the cast of his grave face, and brought a light into his eyes which was before the world. The golden-haired Elf wondered then if it was not folly which made him worry so for his friend, who seemed content enough in his lot. Abruptly, he decided that he would dismiss such thoughts. He shifted from foot to foot, and there was an audible squelch.

The peredhel's smile broadened. "Change your boots, Glorfindel, and then you and I shall share a glass of wine while you tell me the news from Lindon."

TBC.


End file.
